His Heavenly Cradle
by Medusae Aequorea victoria
Summary: AU, Alpha/Omega, Alpha/Sherlock, Omega/John, Mpreg, Hurt/comfort, Angst/fluff, Minor casefic. Trigger Warnings: pregnancy loss, domestic abuse, and infertility. A fluffy love story where Sherlock supports John as John struggles to recover from an abusive marriage and the loss of his unborn baby boy. Part I complete. Part II will begin in July 2014.
1. Chapter 1

Notes:

This is a soft version of Omegaverse. If you enjoy intense and gripping Omegaverse stories (and I do too), you might find the Omegaverse in this story to be too watered-down for you. However, if you like alpha/omega dynamics and are looking for something lighter and more romantic this might be it.

* * *

Chapter one

"How dare you question me in front of doctors?! You think you can make me look stupid?!"

"I'm sorry, Harvey! I wasn't questioning your judgement. Please Harvey, I just need to know−!"

"Shut up!" Harvey ground out. "You've never learned you place!" he snarled.

Sherlock heard a low moan in the room.

"And don't try to turn away! You'll listen to everything I have to say to you unless you want me to break your God-damned neck!"

Sherlock, who had been rooted in place outside the private hospital room door listening to the ugly tirade inside, heard a rapid scuffle in the room accompanied by a sharply indrawn gasp and waited no longer. He acted on instinct, lunging through the door and into the room. He saw a heavy-set Alpha with a flushed face, one hand gripping his Omega's hair, the other hand twisting the man's jaw, forcing his face toward his own. His mate had been trying to cower into the pillows, his face as white as they were.

Harvey turned and faced Sherlock, his expression twisting with rage, "Who the hell are you!? Get out! This is a private room!"

Sherlock flashed Lestrade's police ID. "Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard. I'm here to interview John Smith if he is well enough to answer some questions. And you would be …ah…I believe I know, his husband…Mr...er…Harvey Smith, if I'm not mistaken?"

The man flushed an angrier red, not wanting to back down but then gave a harsh laugh. With a contemptuous look at his mate in the bed, he said to Sherlock, "Well, you want him? You can have the frigid bitch." He turned with a sneer to his mate, "I've got no more use for your dried-up arse! I'm divorcing you and don't think that you'll get anything out of me because you won't. You can die in the street; no one else is going to want you now either, that's certain! And if you don't like it, you've got no one but yourself to blame."

Sherlock, who had seen and heard a lot of ugly things during the course of his work, nevertheless felt his heart and stomach wrench at Harvey's brutal treatment of the fragile man in the bed.

But John's biology held him a prisoner it seemed, for as his mate turned his back on him and walked out the door, he lurched desperately as if to try to follow, tearing the IV tubes from his arms and croaking, "No! Please Harvey! I need − come back! Please!" And when the door swung shut leaving the room in silence, he gave a curdling wail of despair and would have collapsed off the bed if Sherlock hadn't caught him.

John was a dead weight in Sherlock's arms, unconscious and barely breathing: the trauma of losing his pregnancy and the abandonment by his bonded partner were sending him into shock. He was even whiter than before with the ugly exception of the bond mark on his neck, highly visible where his head lolled against Sherlock's chest and now burning into a dark red, the colour of dried blood. As Sherlock watched in disbelief, it rapidly turned to black and began rising like a blister. He had never seen anything like it; without a doubt John was going to die if he didn't receive immediate medical intervention.

Sherlock yanked frantically on the emergency bell, pressing it wildly while trying to aid the stricken man in his arms.

"John! John! No! Breathe, damn it!"

He laid John out on his back in the bed and was within seconds of starting resuscitation when the door swung open and a medical team flooded into the room, shoving him aside and descending on the limp figure on the bed.

* * *

John had no one it seemed, his Alpha having abandoned him. So Sherlock stayed, he would have anyway for he needed to speak to the man as soon as he was well enough to be interviewed, but somehow too it seemed like the right thing to do…the consideration of which would have surprised Sherlock's acquaintances had they known of it.

Sherlock knew he was a cold man, he'd been told it many times, but what he had experienced this evening was unsettling him. Of course he knew about domestic violence and abuse; he had seen the impact of it often in the course of his work. But this was the first time he had ever witnessed it and he was unused to the feeling of helplessness he'd felt in the face of such brutal cruelty being perpetrated against someone as vulnerable as John. He'd gambled on Harvey backing down when faced with a police officer, knowing that as himself there would have been little or nothing he could have done to help John.

Did anyone know about this or had John borne it alone? Almost certainly John had been alone: isolation of the victim was a defining feature of this type of crime. And the thought of the man he had seen tonight suffering alone year after year made what he had witnessed all the more terrible.

There had been no hint in the files of the ugliness behind the façade of the five year marriage. The records had pointed to them being a devoted couple, not social but who simply enjoyed a quiet home life. John was a part-time social worker and Harvey a manager in his father's private security firm. It was true the couple moved frequently but presumably Harvey was advancing his career by managing successively larger offices. But in light of what Sherlock had just witnessed he realized frequent moves were also a way of ensuring that community connections were never formed and any violent altercations between the couple that were reported could not be followed up on by authorities. He shook his head in frustration and leaned back in the hard waiting room chair.

At least John would live. The doctors told him that much. Thank God.

The night wore on into day and then day into another night. Sherlock remained at the hospital for he was unable to proceed with his investigation without speaking to John; let the police think what they might, he knew this case was at a standstill until he could interview John. And he was not about to risk someone else getting to John first, so he stayed. He was counting on the doctors allowing him access to John when he was well enough to speak; his chances were good for there were no family and friends who could object.

His strategy paid off; the doctor responsible for John's care was clearly uncomfortable but at a loss as to how to handle a patient with no family so he agreed to ask John if Sherlock might speak to him.

Sherlock was surprised but relieved to learn that John had apparently agreed. He hadn't wanted to resort to subterfuge to get to John although it would have been easy enough. Even if lives were at stake, the idea of deceiving John, who had obviously been shown little respect in his life, felt wrong.

It was over 24 hours after the events of the previous evening when the doctor informed Sherlock that he could visit John. John was recovering physically, he said, although regaining his full strength would take some months. He had had emergency blood filtering and skin grafting procedures to remove all traces of Harvey from his system, for if anything of his previous bond partner remained it would only poison him. The bond was now cleanly severed but at great cost to John's body, already traumatized by the loss of the baby. This was to say nothing of his mental state, which the doctor did not address.

Sherlock had gleaned enough from his hours in the waiting area, which was adjacent to the nursing station outside the intensive care unit, to know that Harvey had done exactly as he had threatened; the papers ending his responsibility for John had been signed and filed by mid-day. Infertility was a legitimate ground for divorce but the man must have some influence somewhere because he had been able to complete all the medical and legal requirements for his own benefit within 12 hours of walking out on John. Infuriatingly from Sherlock's perspective, Harvey was a free man.

Sherlock opened the door of John's room and entered. It was quiet and dark apart from the indicator lights on the medical equipment monitoring John's vital signs. But there was enough light coming from the city through the open blinds for Sherlock to make out John's still form lying on his side facing the window.

He approached around the end of the bed and said, "Good evening John, my name is −"

"Oh, so not DI Lestrade then?" The voice that cut him off was weak but its thread of sarcasm was unmistakable.

Sherlock was taken aback. Unsure how to respond he paused a moment. But before he could say anything further, to his surprise, John spoke again, his voice frayed but insistent. "They won't… tell me….. Do you know...is Harvey….still here?"

Sherlock's heart clenched. Was there no limit to the cruelty in this place?

"No, John." He spoke quietly, his heart twisting with equal amounts of frustration and pity. "Harvey has gone."

John exhaled; his "thank you," a dull whisper.

The room was quiet again with the exception of the low hum of the monitors.

John spoke once more, his voice still a whisper. "What do you want?"

"John, my name is Sherlock Holmes and I am a consulting detective, at present investigating the so-called chapel murders. I would like to hear about what happened in the church yesterday, when you feel well enough to tell me."

John was silent, his breathing almost imperceptible, before he whispered, "I don't… know anything…and I saw…nothing. You can leave now."

"John, please reconsider." Sherlock's voice was urgent. "You may know more than you realize that could help to solve these crimes. I think you do and if I think so, there is a murderer out there who may think so as well. That puts you in danger John."

"Danger, Mr. Holmes?" John's whisper was harsh. "There is no danger that matters to me now."

This was unexpected. Sherlock hesitated and then finally said, "But it matters to me, John. And it matters to me very much that criminals not get away with their crimes."

There was bitter hiss from the bed. "Mr. Holmes, in my experience they get away with them all of the time."

A significant pause ensued before Sherlock said, "You've never heard of me before, have you John?"

"No."

"Criminals never get away from me, John."

John's voice was flat. "Well, you are too late in my case aren't you, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock didn't pretend not to understand John's meaning but for the moment had nothing to counter with so he didn't respond to John's indictment of him. Instead his asked, "Where will you go from here John?"

"I don't know and I told you, I don't care."

"I see. Then you won't object if the hospital discharges you into my care? I'll make the arrangements shall I?"

What little fight that remained in John after yesterday's events dissolved. Weak and sick, he closed his eyes and withdrew into himself. He had been telling the truth, he really didn't care what happened to him now.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two

Sherlock thought that he must be mad! What on earth was he going to do with an injured and grieving Omega in his flat? Not that biology mattered to him. He was an Alpha, but he'd long since rejected the domestic side of life, devoting himself to his work which he found easy to do with the modern drugs available to control biology-specific behaviours. Still, if he thought about it, the idea was madness. However, he very much wanted to learn what John had witnessed related to the crimes he was investigating and this would provide the best opportunity he'd have to do so.

In addition, with no one to advocate for John it was unlikely that the hospital would keep him once his immediate health crisis was over and if discharged alone, in his present mental state, his outcome was uncertain. So to Sherlock, never one to worry about social norms, this seemed a reasonable solution. There was the unused bedroom upstairs in his flat that John could occupy, at least in the short term (Sherlock's search for an agreeable flatmate was ever ongoing) and perhaps John's family of origin could be located with a bit of research…not that Sherlock held out much hope for that. Abandoned Omegas, especially childless ones, were an embarrassment to family. No longer a youth, John's chances of social recovery were low.

John was discharged one day later by a dismissive doctor only relieved that someone had been found to take responsibility for him. John had remained withdrawn from Sherlock, in fact from everyone involved with his care but didn't object when Sherlock assisted him out of the hospital and into a cab. He was extremely weak; he subsided pale and limp against the back of the cab's seat and closed his eyes for the duration of the ride to Baker Street.

Sherlock allowed himself to think as they rode. He would be relieved to get back to his flat. He found hospitals put him into sensory overload with the glare of lights, always on, and the pervasive odor of disinfectant. At least the revolting stench of Harvey Smith was undetectable on John now, thank heaven. It had made the bile rise in Sherlock's throat resulting in simultaneous urges to gag and tear Harvey apart. The only thing that would have rid Sherlock of this sensation would have been the raw, metallic scent of Harvey's blood flowing from his torn-out throat…and what a pleasure-inducing fantasy that was! Sherlock shook his head, surprised at the turn his thoughts had taken. Perhaps he really was a psychopath after all! But on second thought, he didn't think so; anyone would be forgiven for having such thoughts about Harvey Smith.

The acrid scent of the hospital still clung heavily to John. He needed to be washed and his clothing bagged and binned. Sherlock could purchase him new clothes. He pondered. Perhaps flannel shirts…and cardigans to keep him warm. Yes, as soon as he felt it safe to leave John at the flat he would go to his tailors'. John needed other basics too; he had been discharged with nothing but Sherlock could provide him with everything he needed. It was a pleasurable thought and he smiled out the window as they rounded Piccadilly.

At Baker Street, John opened his eyes at Sherlock's gentle urging and accepted his help in getting out of the cab. He allowed Sherlock to assist him up the stairs into the flat but once there seemed on the verge of collapse.

"John, your room is upstairs. I'm going to carry you there, please don't be alarmed when I pick you up alright?"

John nodded, reaching for the wall for support as he swayed unsteadily. But before he could fall Sherlock lifted him easily, for John was a small man, and turned to carry him the rest of the way to the upstairs room. He was very light and Sherlock glanced down at him in concern. As he did so, his sensitive nose caught the unexpected scent of….what? Under the harsh hospital odor − there it was again…ever so faint. Something sweet and light…Was it clover? For a moment images of dew on grass and delicate spring leaves crossed Sherlock's vision, distracting him. It was several moments before he realized the scent must be that of John himself; John's unique signature, timid but persistent, emerging from under the suffocating odor of Harvey, the hospital, and all else had been smothering him. It tantalized Sherlock and he tried to catch it again, but it had vanished. He set John down on his feet and concentrated on guiding him to sit on the bed where he then removed his shoes for him.

"My landlady Mrs. Hudson made up the room and prepared the loo across the hall for you, John. She also left us some tea. I'm going to go and get you a cup while you get settled in here, alright?"

Mrs. Hudson had tut-tutted over John's story when Sherlock had told her about him and proceeded to throw herself into making his arrival as welcoming as possible. She had had her own experiences with a bad marriage and so was most sympathetic to John's situation.

When Sherlock returned with the tea, he found John lying on his side on the bed, curled in on himself with his back to the door. Sherlock's cautious enquiry yielded no response so he set the vacuum flask of tea on the nightstand and drew the duvet from the foot of the bed up over John and left the room, leaving the door ajar.

The next several days proceeded in a similar fashion to the first. John slept a great deal during the day as well as at night and showed no interest in descending the stairs. Sherlock heard his quiet movements between the loo and bedroom; the doctors had been confident that he could manage his own care during his recovery so Sherlock didn't interfere with his privacy in that regard. He checked on him regularly though, taking him cups of tea and water between meals. Other than politely thanking him, John said nothing.

Between the frozen meals Mrs. Hudson had prepared and the well-stocked cupboards and refrigerator they managed well enough for food, not that John was eating much. Sherlock left John only once to run a couple of errands and to visit his tailor, during which time Mrs. Hudson kindly agreed to stay in the flat in case John should need something.

It was in the middle of the third night when Sherlock, for once asleep in his room, was abruptly woken by a wailing cry which he quickly ascertained was coming from John's room. He scrambled from his bed, pulled on his dressing gown and took the stairs in twos up to John's bedroom where he pushed open the door and flicked on the light. John was alone; no intruders as Sherlock had almost feared but he was obviously in a bad state, lying curled up, sobbing and clutching his abdomen.

"John, what is it!?"

"Geoffrey! The baby! Tell them, Harvey, please? Don't let them take him away! He needs me; he'll die without me Harvey! Oh God, my baby, tell them to give him to me please?! I'll do anything you want, just let me have him, please, please!"

"John. Wake up." Sherlock spoke quietly but his voice was deep and resonant enough that it penetrated John's consciousness and he turned to stare wildly at Sherlock in the doorway.

"Harvey?"

"Harvey is not here, John."

John collapsed sobbing again, but Sherlock could make out his words, "He knows where Geoffrey is." John hugged his body, "Sherlock, I want Geoffrey, he needs me, please help me find him, please…"

The pleas were of a man stripped bare; helpless and reduced to wretched begging and they tore at Sherlock's emotional defenses. Acting on extraordinary impulse, forgetting completely to ask permission to touch John, he went to him and leaned over to lift him into his arms. He sank down on the bed holding John and instinctively began to rock him in an attempt to alleviate his terrible suffering.

"John, John, wake up please. It's me, Sherlock, we can talk about this, but you need to wake up first, alright?"

John continued weeping for some time but he appeared to be more oriented than when Sherlock had first arrived so he said nothing more, just held John, trying to control the churning of his own emotions which were threatening to overwhelm him now that they had been cut loose.

"The baby's gone, Sherlock." John's voice was a whisper.

"Yes, John. I'm sorry. If I could do anything to bring him back to you I would."

"He was beautiful and perfect. I know he was and I loved him more than anything."

"I know John. I know you did."

"But Harvey's right isn't he? Geoffrey died because I was too weak to protect him. What kind of a father can't protect his baby and let's someone….hurt him?"

Sherlock sucked in a shocked breath. "That is not true John! You almost died when he was taken from you; you were willing to give your life for your baby, John! Remember in the hospital? "

John began to sob again. "I begged them to give him to me…but they wouldn't."

His body was rigid with distress, his breathing reduced to sharp gasps, dragged in when his lungs rebelled and demanded air. "I wanted to see him, Sherlock, I wanted to hold him. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him, even if he was already gone. But they wouldn't give him to me. Oh God, I never even saw him! He didn't get to hear me tell him how much I loved him. He never knew!" John's last words were a wail of anguish.

Sherlock had never cried in his life that he could remember, not once, but he felt the tears now.

John's pain was devastating and Sherlock felt helpless; what did he know about babies and pregnancy loss? He tried to draw on whatever instincts had been compelling him to try to help John since he'd first met him.

"John," he said hoarsely, "Listen to me. You carried your son with you for seven months, day and night, and during those months how many times, every day, did you tell him how much you loved him?"

He seemed to be making an impression for John quieted.

He continued, "I think it was very often. Am I right?" John didn't respond but Sherlock could tell he was listening. "Geoffrey knew you loved him, John." He sought John's eyes. "Of course you wanted to see him and hold him; to say goodbye, of course you did and you should have been allowed, the doctors were wrong not to give him to you, but don't let yourself think that your baby didn't know you loved him."

John was quiet but he nodded. He then looked up at Sherlock as though about to say something but stopped, and reaching, touched his cheek lightly. "You're sad." He sounded puzzled, "Why are you crying, Sherlock?"

Sherlock choked on a breath. "I'm sad for you John. I wish I could have stopped what happened. I wish you could be happy right now with your son in your arms. If I could make it happen, I would."

"But it wasn't your fault."

"No, and it wasn't yours either, John."

John fell silent again but to Sherlock his silence seemed for the first time since he'd met him to have a meditative element rather than be simply pure, mute grief.

Before long John fell asleep, his body still weak from trauma. Sherlock moved to set him in bed again but before he did, hardly aware he was doing so; he drew John closer, dipped his head and breathed in his fresh scent, now stronger and reassuringly mingled with Sherlock's own scent from his borrowed t-shirt and pyjamas. How appealing John's scent was!

He didn't stir when Sherlock finally slid him off of his lap and under the duvet, drawing it up over him. Sherlock rose and stood looking down at John for a moment. He then turned to the door and switched off the room's ceiling light, but before he left, he turned back and said, "I will do as you ask me John; I will find Geoffrey for you."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter three

Sherlock slept soundly, waking later than usual, perhaps due to the unfamiliar emotional upheaval of the previous night. He sniffed. Yes, it was the fragrant aroma of toast. Puzzled, he rose and drawing his dressing gown tie-belt around his waist ventured into the living room and the kitchen of his flat. Sure enough, there was John, determinedly buttering toast and searching for mugs in the cupboard. He swung around to look at Sherlock and froze.

Unbeknownst to Sherlock he was terrifying to John. Up close he was overwhelming; tall and broad-shouldered with an untamed ruffle of black curls descending over his forehead and his strangely glacier-coloured eyes, which were at that moment fixed intently on John. To John he looked like a wolf; a large, threatening Alpha wolf. John quailed. Panic rose in his throat and he gulped.

Sensing something of the sort was happening, Sherlock hastily backed into the living room and began to make a show of looking for the morning papers. When he glanced up again, John, somewhat recovered, was bravely offering a mug of tea. Relieved, Sherlock accepted it with casual thanks and remarked on the light rain falling outside. John nodded but still awkward, he didn't speak; he looked at the toast and then back to Sherlock. Sherlock smiled with appreciative pleasure and the immediate tension passed; they sat down together to share breakfast and the papers.

By mid-morning John, looking pale and tired once more, returned upstairs. Sherlock took him a cup of tea in the early afternoon and found him soundly sleeping atop the bed. He didn't stir when Sherlock pulled the duvet up around his shoulders so Sherlock set the tea on the nightstand and quietly left.

In the late afternoon Sherlock was finalizing some experiment notes when John appeared in the living room doorway. He hesitated uncomfortably and seemed to be trying to say something so Sherlock smiled encouragingly and waited.

"I…I was wondering if…you would like me to make dinner for you. If not, it's okay, I mean…I…I know I'm not a very good cook. Harvey says…" He stopped, confused.

Dear God, if Sherlock ever had the misfortune to come face-to-face with Harvey Smith again he would not be held accountable for his actions…

"If you feel like making something for _us _to eat, I'm sure I will enjoy it. But why bother unless you feel like it? I'd had it in mind to order take-away, perhaps Chinese…"

"Well…I, um, like to cook…"

"Then I know I shall enjoy it. Please feel free to do what you like in the kitchen, whenever you want John. In fact, you may do whatever you please here at 221B." Sherlock smiled at him, reached for his violin and turned with deliberate casualness to the window.

An hour later, soothing violin music floating from the living room and the appetizing aromas of ginger and citrus wafting from the kitchen, John placed two plates of steaming lemon chicken with rice and gingered pea pods on the table. He cleared his throat awkwardly and as Sherlock turned from the window toward him, he indicated self-consciously that Sherlock should sit.

Sherlock, in fact, was not hungry, he had too much on his mind, but he would have sooner cut off his right arm than refuse John's meal, so he ate with every indication of enjoyment. And it was delicious. He found to his surprise that despite his lack of appetite he did enjoy it.

They were nearly finished their meal when Sherlock spoke up, "John?" John looked anxiously at him. "Would you say that −," he couldn't even force the man's name across his lips, "your ex-husband…that he is a man of good judgement?"

John was unhesitating, "No."

"What about his character John, is he a thoughtful or sincere man?"

John was feeling puzzled. "No. No, he isn't Sherlock. You met him; he is like that all the time. He…" He looked away uncomfortably. He had said too much.

"John." Sherlock surprised John by reaching out and taking his hand. "Given what you've just told me, would you be willing to consider that the things Harvey said about you−to you, were wrong? That they were not true?"

John sat back in his chair and tried to pull his hand from Sherlock's firm grip. Shame flooded his face.

Sherlock's hold tightened in distress. "John. No. I'm not mocking you. I'm sincere. Please! I just don't say things the right way sometimes, I'm sorry!"

John relaxed slightly then mumbled, "I see what you mean." Sherlock could see his brows draw together in slight confusion. Then, still looking at the floor, he said quietly, almost sadly, "You're right, of course."

Sherlock looked down at their hands, still linked firmly together. "John, I can tell you something about me. You might be interested…" He looked up to gauge John's reaction. John was still not willing to make eye contact but he nodded.

Sherlock hesitated and then said, "Many people who know me−including myself−believe I'm a sociopath…some even say a psychopath−"

John's head shot up. "What?! You are not, Sherlock! That is not true! And I'm a social-worker Sherlock, so I know a bit about it!"

Sherlock was surprised at John's vehement reaction. He said slowly, "I know that now, John. Over the past few days…since you have been here…I have discovered for myself that it isn't true. I was wrong to believe what other people said about me. I formed the opinion based on insufficient evidence, it would seem."

John stared at him for a moment and then smiled. He squeezed Sherlock's hand and smiled wider when Sherlock responded in kind. And to Sherlock it was as though the sun was suddenly shining on Baker Street even though the January night outside was rainy and dark.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter four

John was up early the next morning. He beat Sherlock to the kitchen once more and by the time Sherlock arrived fresh from a shower, John had prepared a mushroom omelette, toast and a pot of tea for them. Sherlock sniffed the kitchen appreciatively and saw with approval that John was wearing new trousers, a red check shirt and the deep-green cashmere jumper that Sherlock had purchased for him (Sherlock had hoped that John wouldn't necessarily recognize the wool as cashmere as it might seem extravagant, but it had been unusually soft and thick and he very much wanted John to be warm and comfortable …). Now seeing him, Sherlock congratulated himself on his wardrobe choices; the warm tones brought some slight colour to John's cheeks and highlighted his attractive sandy hair while the style lent him a quiet sort of dignity that was just right for John.

For Sherlock's part, he intended to go out in the morning if John seemed well enough to be left alone for a short while so he had put on a blue silk shirt and his charcoal grey suit. He had no patience with ties so his shirt was open-necked, giving him a rather rakish air which was further emphasized by his supremely confident demeanour. John was getting used to the large presence of Sherlock, both in appearance and personality, so when he greeted Sherlock good morning his expression held more shy admiration than the intimidation of the previous morning.

As they ate the omelette and toast, Sherlock observed John discreetly and decided that it was safe to leave him for the morning. John had not yet offered to tell him in detail of the events in the church that had led to the traumatic loss of his pregnancy and Sherlock refused to pressure him so he had been pursuing the case using what little information John had provided the first night in the hospital. He had been making progress but the next step necessitated a couple of hours on Lestrade's computer. So after breakfast he took his leave but not before thanking John sincerely for the meal and surprising him by carrying their breakfast dishes to the sink where he stacked them neatly, and pouring John a second cup of tea. Shrugging on his coat he winked at John's nonplussed expression and exited the flat. Downstairs, as an extra precaution he stopped at Mrs. Hudson's to ask if she would mind checking in on John at elevenses.

Sherlock spent a fruitful morning in Lestrade's office, ignoring the DI's grumbling about compromised passwords and security clearance infractions. It was absorbing work, he loved to be on the trail of a killer but he surprised himself with his eagerness to return to Baker Street and John. He was simply worried about John's welfare he told himself, which was perfectly natural under the circumstances…never mind that what he actually found himself thinking about was John's illuminating smile at dinner the night before and how wonderful it felt to know that he, Sherlock, had been the one responsible for it.

So, his research complete, Sherlock went home to Baker Street, detouring only slightly to pick up what he knew were the best chips in Marylebone with which to tempt John's appetite for lunch. Conscious of a strong feeling of contentment he sighed as he entered his flat. John, it seemed, was occupying himself by dusting the bookshelf. He was standing, reading, with a duster under his arm and a book in his hands when Sherlock opened the door. He jumped at Sherlock's entrance but swiftly collected himself and asked politely if Sherlock had had a successful morning.

"I brought you chips…" Sherlock stopped, confused. That had not been what he had meant to say. But John seemed to think nothing of it, for he simply smiled and responded that he liked chips and what a good idea they were for lunch which eased Sherlock's confusion and somehow made everything alright.

John, tired but seemingly not unhappy, retired to his room after lunch and went to sleep. He didn't appear for dinner and was still asleep when Sherlock checked in on him in the evening.

It was when Sherlock was preparing for bed that he heard a cry from upstairs. Knowing this time what was happening, he dropped his toothbrush in the basin and sprinted up the staircase, barefoot and shirtless. He opened John's door to see him by the stream of the light from the hall gasping and clutching his middle in acute distress. He was repeating, "No, no, no, please no," in an anguished chant.

"John, I'm here. I'm right here; I'll help you, alright? Come to me John." Sherlock reached for John as he had before but this time, John reached too, to cling to him as though he were a lifeline.

"The baby, Sherlock! Geoffrey! It's too soon, it has to stop! Please help me!"

Once more helpless and heartsick, Sherlock could only hold and try to comfort John while he fought his way back to the present from reliving the anguish of losing his baby. John seemed to take comfort from Sherlock's hold; he pressed his face into Sherlock's bare shoulder as if trying to absorb his strength and struggled to control his breathing. Sherlock tried to help by stroking his back and murmuring comfort into his ear.

John finally calmed to quiet weeping and then stillness. Sherlock hoped he might sleep as before but instead, unexpectedly he spoke. "I can tell you what happened in the church."

"You don't have to. Only if you want to John."

"I do, I need to, Sherlock."

Sherlock almost wanted to stop him, he was feeling so emotionally raw himself by then. He didn't though, he simply pulled John close to his chest and let him speak as he wished.

After a short silence, John began, "Father Stansell at St. Patrick Church asked if I would meet with him to discuss his proposal for an after-school program for troubled youth. He wanted to talk about what grants might be available from Children's Services, where I work…"

"We arranged a time to meet in the afternoon but then a case-meeting came up so I wasn't going to be able to make it. I couldn't reach him on his mobile so on the off-chance he might be at the church, I stopped by at lunchtime to let him know. When I arrived, the church was empty as far as I could tell; I stood in the foyer for a few moments before deciding that I would leave a note for him."

John closed his eyes. "I was happy that afternoon Sherlock, it was a good day. Harvey had been away for most of the week and I was happy before this happened! The church is old and a bit run-down, but it's nice in a kind of threadbare way and peaceful."

John sighed, "Anyway, I looked around but there was nothing in the foyer to write on so I looked into the nave where I saw a table with some leaflets on it. I stepped in to pick one up and just as I did…"

John started to tear up and his voice trembled, "someone pushed me from behind, very hard Sherlock… I tried to catch myself..." he looked up at Sherlock beseechingly, "I tried to stop myself from falling, I did, Sherlock, but I couldn't and I fell into the little table. It shattered when I landed on it and one of the broken legs hit me in the stomach, then I fell onto the wooden pew beside me before I landed on the floor."

John drew a gulping gasp of air and squeezed his eyes shut as if to block out the memory. "I felt him, Sherlock, I felt Geoffrey!"

He began to sob again and curled up into a ball in Sherlock's lap if to protect his belly. "I knew … that something bad had happened…" He was unable to continue.

"John, I'm so sorry. But please John, tell me you know that what happened was not your fault, please!"

"I can't help it Sherlock! If only I'd not gone to the church in the first place, if only I'd stayed in the foyer when I got there…if only I could have caught my balance before I fell..."

"John." Sherlock said, feeling tears starting his own eyes.

"I lost my mobile when I fell! I couldn't get up but I looked everywhere that I could on the floor around me in the nave and the foyer. When I couldn't find it, I lay there as still as I could, wondering how best to get help and that's when Father Stansell and his curate came in and they called an ambulance."

"I was telling the truth when you asked me about it in the hospital Sherlock, I really didn't see or hear anything the entire time I was there!"

"I know. I believed you, John." Sherlock ran a reassuring hand over John's hair.

John nodded and continued, his voice tragic, "I kept begging Geoffrey to stay with me, promising that I would take care of him and that we would be okay, we'd both be okay, but it didn't work, he couldn't, he just…couldn't…"

As John halted, Sherlock, finally overcome, gave into his emotions and lowered his forehead to John's in silence.

John whispered, "I wish I'd died as well, Sherlock. I wanted to go with him. I keep thinking that he's frightened and lonely without me. I should have gone with him."

Sherlock shook his head. "I…I don't think so John." He was silent for several seconds. "I…am very glad you are here now." And I can help you live, he thought. "I can't bring Geoffrey back but I will help you in every other way."

John gave a sad smile. "You already have Sherlock. I'm grateful for the kindness you've shown me and I'm trying to be worthy of it. I really am. "

"You don't have to try to be worthy of anything John. You are already are. You just need to believe it."


	5. Chapter 5

It's time to thank my wonderful writing coach, Squatchlock. Thank you my smart and funny friend!

Chapter five

John woke late the next morning. In the kitchen, he found a note propped against the vacuum flask of hot tea informing him that Sherlock had gone out but would return by mid-morning. The initials SH were a dark swirl, as dramatic and bold as the man himself thought John with a smile.

Still feeling tired, he selected a book from the bookshelf and carried his tea to the sofa. He sat with the book unopened on his lap however, thinking back to the night and wondering at the extraordinary compassion Sherlock had shown him in the wake of his nightmare. His thoughts were wistful. What an amazing man his host was! He had never met an Alpha like Sherlock. How fortunate the Omega that Sherlock finally chose as a mate would be…John had no doubt he or she would be fiercely protected and loved with a tender passion. He only hoped that Sherlock would be loved equally in return; he might be commanding and every inch a fearless Alpha but he had vulnerabilities too; John had seen them and he suddenly wished very much for Sherlock to be nurtured and protected by a caring mate in return. Sherlock deserved that above all else. John knew his own chances for love were over but he very much wished lasting happiness and fulfillment for Sherlock.

The object of John's thoughts, finding himself in the midst of a morning filled with the surprising and the unexpected, was at that moment hastily departing a crime scene at which he had only just arrived. He had taken one look at the victim and, ignoring Lestrade's exclamation of consternation, had hailed a cab, climbed in and sped away without a word of explanation.

Sherlock was going home to Baker Street. Once there he mounted the stairs two at a time and when he reached the landing he flung open the door of the flat. God, if anything had happened to John…he was truly frightened. But John was there, sitting on the sofa with his book. How attractive he is in the brown check shirt and the blue cardigan−the same deep-blue as his eyes−like autumn woods and quiet streams, thought Sherlock, momentarily distracted, I knew those were the right colours...

John, startled out of his reverie, jumped in fright as Sherlock banged through the door. Fear was never far from the surface, Sherlock knew. Admonishing himself for frightening him, he halted where he was to give John the opportunity to settle before he approached him.

"John. Is everything alright?"

John stood. "Yes, but why?"

"John, I don't know how to say this…" Sherlock's voice was tight, betraying his anxiety.

John looked afraid. "What?"

"Harvey has been killed. I thought something like this might happen. You are in danger John, I'm certain of it now. We must be very care−"

"No! Sherlock, no!" John's face crumpled. He stared at Sherlock, his expression shocked and his arm reaching for the back of a chair for support.

Sherlock was surprised at his reaction, although he supposed upon reflection that he shouldn't have been. No matter what his character, Harvey had been John's husband and John was an impossibly loving man… "John, I'm sorry. I didn't think. Of course you're upset. He was your husband…"

John wasn't listening. He was quietly weeping, one hand over his eyes. He swallowed, "Now I'll never know what happened to Geoffrey…to Geoffrey's body. I tried to get Harvey to tell me before he left the hospital where Geoffrey was, if he took him or not, but he wouldn't tell me. I was still hoping that one day he would. With Harvey dead, now I'll never what happened to my son's body."

"But that's not so John, in fact −" Sherlock paused but before he could begin again, John interrupted.

"Wait, you said…what did you think Sherlock?" An accusatory note crept into his voice and he looked at Sherlock in disbelief. "That I'm upset over Harvey's death?! You think I would grieve for Harvey?"

John's expression held incredulity, a sense of betrayal even. "How could you believe that after how he treated me? You were there, Sherlock, you saw him and heard him! You think I miss that? That I'd grieve for that?"

"No John−"

"That is what you think isn't it, Sherlock?! That's what everyone thinks about abusive relationships?! _Why doesn't he just leave? I know if I was him I'd leave. He must be getting something out of it. Staying is just asking for it. _No Sherlock! I was trapped; I had nowhere to go and no one to ask for help! I have almost no rights or legal protection; the few laws there are, Sherlock, are not enforced. There _is_ nowhere to go!"

Let loose, John's anger was spilling over, "There is no safe place, Sherlock! I would still be trapped in that hell if Harvey hadn't decided to discard me himself! Can you understand that? I suffered every day and night I was with that man, Sherlock! I did not love him or respect him. He was my tormentor and I do not miss him at all!"

Sherlock was stunned into silence by John's outburst. He hadn't thought that, not really, but it was true that his understanding of situations such as John's was limited…

He blurted out what was uppermost in his mind. "Baker Street is a safe place for you, John."

His anger spent, John's eyes were filling with treacherous tears and he turned and bolted up the stairs to his room. Sherlock stared after him but did not move to follow. John had stubborn pride. He might be regretting his outburst, not that he should do, for he was right and it was useful for Sherlock to hear what he had said. Nevertheless, it was clear that John would rather be alone for a while.

Sherlock sat down at the table and opened his lap-top. John must be protected and there was work to do.

John emerged from his room some time later. He came quietly down the stairs, glanced tentatively at Sherlock − who smiled reassuringly at him − and went to the kitchen. He appeared to be making tea. That was good thought Sherlock, feeling relieved; making tea was always a good sign.

The tea steeped and ready, John poured a cup; fixed it the way he knew Sherlock liked it and carried it to the table where he placed it in front of Sherlock.

He spoke, "My marriage was arranged, Sherlock, by my father. He was in the army and Harvey was the son of his commanding officer. I would have liked to fall in love and choose my own husband but I had to accept my father's choice. Even so I was looking forward to having a mate and children..." his voice shook and Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John continued determinedly. "I wanted to be happy Sherlock; I wanted to love Harvey but…"

He drew a breath and said, "Anyway, I'm sorry I shouted at you. It wasn't fair of me. You couldn't have known. And perhaps a mate who had loved him would grieve for Harvey regardless of his past actions. I know you were just being understanding and kind." His voice wobbled slightly on the last word.

Sherlock sat back in his chair and fixed John with a steady gaze. "Please don't apologize, John. I'm the one who is sorry. It is inexcusable that in my line of work I failed to observe and understand what you have just been forced to tell me." His expression was sober.

He then said softly, "But thank you for the tea, John. You make an excellent cup of tea, which is welcome at any time." He smiled tenderly at John who blushed and nodded his head.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter six

After a quiet lunch, and approximately three hours after John had presented Sherlock with his cup of tea, the door of the flat swung open and Lestrade walked in unannounced. To be fair, this was in his usual manner, much in the same way that Sherlock would walk into Lestrade's office uninvited and at will. But John, reading his book on the sofa, was unaccustomed to this ritual and started violently at the sudden appearance and scent of a strange Alpha; a small sound of panic issued from his throat and he sought for escape, his eyes darting frantically to the staircase behind Lestrade.

Sherlock who had been engrossed in his laptop, leapt up as if electrified, a vicious snarl erupting from his throat and confronted Lestrade who quickly raised his hands in a placating gesture and backed up toward the door, stunned surprise written on his face.

"What the hell Sherlock!? Jesus, mate! "

Sherlock had drawn himself up, his shoulders squared, his fists clenched and his feet planted in an aggressive stance.

"Caught you at a bad time?" Lestrade quipped, trying to diffuse the tension in the room. It didn't work.

"Knock next time. You scared John." Simple enough words but they were delivered in a threatening growl that gave them a whole different meaning, one that Lestrade did not miss. He glanced with interest from Sherlock to John, still frightened, in the far corner of the room.

"And John would be who, exactly, Sherlock? If he is who I think he is, then we need to chat. Care to introduce me?"

Sherlock, still glaring, faced him for a moment longer but then turned and went to John, his demeanour altering as he went so that by the time he reached the smaller man he was moving slowly and calmly. Shielding John from Lestrade's direct view, he bent and murmured something near John's ear. John visibly relaxed, closing his eyes and inclining his head to one side in what was perhaps an unconscious plea for more reassurance. Sherlock stilled close to him before straightening and putting a light hand on his arm.

Turning, he said, "John Watson, DI Lestrade."

Greg advanced in a friendly manner, but cautiously. Sherlock was right, the man looked frail and haunted and he had no wish to frighten him any more than he already was, although he obviously had an enthusiastic protector in Sherlock. Lestrade shot an assessing glance in Sherlock's direction.

"Greg, please. A pleasure to meet you. I'm an old friend of your bad-tempered body guard here." He lifted a thumb in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock huffed in an irritated manner, still on-edge.

John managed a small smile and held out a hand in a conscientious attempt at courtesy.

Lestrade grasped his hand and quickly assessed him…_hmmmm, a courageous man but gentle, not a murderer even if his ex-husband by most accounts might have merited it. _

Lestrade and his team had spent the last three hours searching for information on Harvey Smith in all the databases at their disposal, of which there were many.1 A great deal of unpleasant information about the man had emerged. Although Harvey had never been arrested or charged with an offence, he was the subject of a number of criminal incident reports (including several for partner assault and battery) in Birmingham, Coventry, Bristol and Leeds; his last four cities of residence. In addition, MI6 was very interested in his role as manager of several of his father's lucrative security contracts with some very unsavoury foreign dictators. It seemed that both his and his father's arrests for violations of international law and security sanctions had been imminent.

Mulling over the thoughts in his head, Lestrade turned to Sherlock, who arched a challenging eyebrow back at him. _Now Sherlock on the other hand,_ Lestrade speculated…_murdering Harvey certainly wasn't beyond the realm of possibility for him…but then again it wasn't likely that Harvey would have been dispatched as neatly and bloodlessly as he had been if Sherlock had been involved…_

John interrupted the silent communication between Sherlock and Lestrade. "I'll make tea for you both, if you like…" He glanced nervously at Sherlock.

Sherlock's response was soft, as was his hand on John's shoulder. "No, thank you John. I'll make the tea, please sit."

Lestrade took this, correctly, to be his cue to try to make John comfortable with him and since he was a kind and easy-going man this was not a chore. He began to engage John in conversation and soon they were discussing cooking, more specifically the amount of gluten in heritage wheat varieties and its impact on the texture of bread dough; Lestrade it turned out was an enthusiastic weekend bread-baker. He was encouraging John to share his secrets of success with Chelsea buns, and where one might find half-way decent currents these days, when Sherlock returned with a tea-tray.

"What's this Sherlock, you're saving the biscuits for the important guests?" Lestrade complained.

"Oh! I'll get−" John's anxious offer was impulsive.

Lestrade looked up in surprise, regretting his good-natured chaffing. "It's no problem John; really, Sherlock knows I'm trying to cut back..."

He felt concern at John's obvious over-anxiousness to please, knowing that it almost certainly sprang from a profound fear of conflict. He was well aware of the psychological impact that years of abuse had on victims and wondered if Sherlock was up to dealing with John's complicated emotional needs. The Sherlock he knew rarely questioned himself and was not tolerant of hesitancy and insecurity in others. Watching the two of them together now though − seeing Sherlock's light touch to John's hand, intended to reassure but unnoticeable unless one was looking for it − Lestrade realized to his surprise that Sherlock was very attuned to John's feelings and what's more, comfortable with providing the emotional support John needed.

Lestrade sipped his mug of unsweetened tea and wondered absently at his discovery, speculating that perhaps it arose from Sherlock's own social awkwardness, which, although Sherlock never let-on, Greg knew he was sensitive about. It was a new insight into the perplexing man who was Sherlock Holmes; a man Lestrade was very fond of, despite Sherlock's abrasive manner. Perhaps John would be the one to bring out Sherlock's warm human potential, thus far hidden from almost everyone. Lestrade hoped so.

Bringing himself back to the present, Lestrade, with the niceties attended to and sensing that his two hosts would rather be alone together−even if they weren't quite fully aware of it themselves yet−got down to business.

"Sherlock, about this morning−" Before he could finish his sentence he was interrupted.

"John had nothing to do with−"

"Sherlock had nothing to do with−"

"−Harvey's death!"

Sherlock and John both spoke at the same time and then turned to look at each other in surprise.

Lestrade glanced from one to the other with amused interest. "Alright," he nodded and leaned back in his chair, "Gimme then."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter seven

Lestrade's request for an explanation was aimed at Sherlock who was ignoring him, sitting very still and staring at John with a mixture of puzzlement and intense interest. Lestrade could almost see his head tilted to one side and his ears pricked forward…

Dragging his attention back to Lestrade, Sherlock said shortly, "Well, I should have thought it was obvious but of course not to the lot you work with." His look dared Lestrade to contradict him but Lestrade patiently did not, so he continued, "You've got three murdered priests; each of whom received a threatening letter shortly before their deaths. The victims held the parishes of St. Joseph's, St. Agnes and St. Alphonsus. And by-the-way, a bishop at Westminster Cathedral is the most likely next victim unless your force can get themselves organised enough for once to prevent a crime."

"A bishop!? But Father Stansell at St. Patrick is the latest one to receive a threat−" Lestrade protested, only to be interrupted again, this time by Sherlock rolling his eyes impatiently ceiling ward.

Lestrade sighed heavily. "Yes, alright. On with it then…"

"The last threatening letter, as you point out, was received by Father Stansell of St. Patrick on the day that John went to see the Father. Father Stansell, however, is not at risk of being murdered. After analysing all the evidence I've concluded with certainty that his letter is a classic 'red-herring'."

Sherlock glanced at John and his tone softened. "It was the murderer who delivered the letter to St. Patrick. That much is true. John surprised him with his unexpectedly early visit that afternoon which led to the suspect making his first significant mistake and providing a very obvious clue to his identity, one that your less-than-stellar squad failed completely to pick up on, I add."

Lestrade folded his arms and waited, knowing that insults to his officers was the price to be paid for Sherlock's assistance with any case…

"The clue of course, is related to the letters that each of the victims received in the days previous to their murders but not in the obvious manner that one would think." Sherlock stopped suddenly and turned to John. "John? Perhaps you are tired and would like to rest? Lestrade can come back or I can go to the station later."

Lestrade, who had been concentrating his attention on Sherlock turned to John and saw immediately Sherlock's cause for concern. John's face was pale and his hands were beginning to tremble. He was obviously becoming upset.

"No. It's…it's alright. I want to hear, I want to know what you've learned, Sherlock because I have searched my memory over and over and I can't come up with anything. I wish I could…but I just didn't see anything."

Sherlock's voice and face were gentle again. "But John, what you told me was all I needed to know. Without your account, I would still be as much in the dark as before, we all would be. You are the one who helped solved the mystery, John."

"But how? I don't understand."

"It's a case of the dog that didn't bark. The letter was delivered to the church, that is certain; one of the ECAs who attended you picked it up from the floor of the foyer of the church and handed it to Father Stansell. But this is why your statement is so important. You said you saw nothing in the foyer when you arrived. You were even looking for paper, something to write on you said, so if the letter had been there, you would have seen it."

Sherlock's hand moved perceptibly closer to John's again as he continued. "After you were assaulted and pushed to the floor, you said you searched for your dropped mobile, again you would have found the letter had it been in the nave or the foyer but you saw nothing. My certain conclusion? There was nothing to find because the letter was not yet there."

Then, not caring that Lestrade was there to see, he reached for and held John's shaking hand in his own and asked again, "Please, John are you sure you want to hear…this?"

John held on to the hand offered him and nodded.

So Sherlock continued, although noticeably reluctantly now, "The only reasonable conclusion one can draw from this is that either one of the ambulance crew, Timothy the curate or Father Stansell himself brought the letter. I immediately ruled out the ECAs and the paramedics; the random nature of emergency call-outs makes the possibility that one of them is the murderer extremely low."

John's spoke, his voice shaking. "Father Stansell or Timothy did this? Took my son's life!?"

"I'm sorry John, I'm sorry."

John stared at Sherlock with a stricken expression, "Are you certain, Sherlock?" he whispered.

Sherlock nodded. Pained confusion was written on his face for it was the first time in his life that he had not enjoyed the reveal of a murderer. And never again would he experience the pure rush of victory, flowing through his veins like the drug it was for him, when he solved a case. The expression on John's face would be a memory that would ground him; forever temper his exhilaration with a sobering awareness of the pain and devastation that the criminals he pursued left in their wake.

Lestrade, watching this, rejoiced. At last, here was Sherlock recognising and connecting with something greater than himself and his own brilliant intellect. Lestrade looked at John again with interest. There was obviously more to this unassuming man than met the eye for him to have had such an impact on the inscrutable Sherlock Holmes.

"Talk to me about motive Sherlock," prompted Lestrade quietly.

"The motivation is ambition. Simple. The three priests murdered worked in large prestigious London parishes, quite different from St. Patrick (which was another reason that the letter to Father Stansell was such an important clue; it did not fit the pattern). The contents of the hate-letters, untruthful accusations and dramatic threats of revenge were nonsense, of course, meant to distract us from the real motivation−that of Father Stansell obtaining a significant promotion to a large and important parish. In that sense all of the letters were red herrings."

"'Of course', nonsense?" queried Lestrade, trying to keep up.

"Mmmm. Yes, a bit too obvious," said Sherlock, "I began to investigate what else all three victims might have had in common. In doing so I searched the names of all the applicants for Reverend positions in all three parishes for the past five years. Father Stansell's was one of about six names that appeared on all three lists. The other priests were easily eliminated as suspects (two have died of old age, one has retired to Switzerland and the other two now work in South Korea and Nigeria respectively), leaving only Father Stansell. His receiving the latest letter and John's account revealing how it was delivered were all I needed to reach a solid conclusion."

"But Sherlock, why risk delivering the letter with so many people around, why not just do it later?"

"I said the murderer was ambitious, I didn't say he was intelligent." Sherlock was scornful. "He had established a pattern of delivering the letters on a Wednesday afternoon, probably a poor attempt to make the murders look ritualistic in some way. So, when he failed to deliver the letter to St. Patrick as planned that day, he had to try again immediately or wait another week. And, it was imperative that someone other than Father Stansell find the letter, to witness it, so to speak. With the investigation intensifying, the murderer felt he couldn't afford to wait."

John spoke, "Sherlock, I…I…am feeling tired after all. I think I'll go upstairs now. Nice to meet you Greg. Please excuse me," he stood and turned away toward the stairs.

Sherlock half rose as if to follow him but John, turning back said, "It's alright Sherlock, I don't want to slow the investigation, for either of you; I want whoever did this to be arrested for everything that he has done."

So Sherlock sat again, but his earlier focus was noticeably absent.

"Does Harvey's murder have anything to do with these priest murders then, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock tried to force his attention back to Lestrade, saying, "Yes," but he glanced up the stairs anxiously after John once more before he continued, "Our murderer guessed it would be only a matter of time before John would remember that the letter hadn't been there when he was lying in the vestibule, especially once John was questioned by police as a witness. Not aware of the fractured nature of their relationship, the murderer assumed that the first person John would confide in would be Harvey. He therefore wants both John and Harvey silenced."

Sherlock's voice turned to pure ice, "Harvey was killed because he was very good at pretending that he was a close and loving husband to John; the man was 'hoist with his own petard'."

He added dismissively, "Harvey was a relatively easy target; he had personal security but not only was he in the midst of moving, yet again, and thus somewhat exposed, he wasn't expecting a threat from the direction it came."

His tone then turned from dismissive to deadly, "The murderer will not find John to be such an easy target."

Lestrade did not doubt this statement for a minute.

"The Father and the curate are lovers. I do not know if they are both involved in the murders or just one of them. We'll need to flush out whichever one it is or both. I'm sure you can think of something. Let me know, will you?"

With that, even before he had finished his sentence, Sherlock was out of his chair and half-way across the room toward the stairs in his haste to check on John.

Lestrade grinned and let himself out of the flat.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock knocked quietly on John's door and when he received no response, he gingerly opened it a crack. John had been asleep but he woke, stirring drowsily and opening his eyes to look at Sherlock in the doorway…and then he smiled. Sherlock, about to close the door with a hasty apology to John for waking him, stopped still and found himself staring back at John, transfixed. No one had ever looked at Sherlock the way John was now, with that particular expression in their eyes, and Sherlock found himself immobilized by it, not even able to breathe.

Sherlock had known John had beautiful eyes; he had marveled the dark blue of John's irises−deep blue like the heavens on a summer night, encircled by an unusual colour-orb of earth brown−from the first time he'd looked into them. And right now John's eyes seemed to be casting some of kind of immobilising spell on Sherlock; which was a ridiculous notion and one Sherlock rejected immediately. Still, something unusual happening…was it a trick of the light? Yes, it must have been, for even as Sherlock stared, the sensation of entrancement faded. Sherlock blinked to find that John appeared as perfectly normal as usual.

Still, unaccountably confused and uncertain of himself all of a sudden, Sherlock said, "Ah, dinner. Would you like something to eat?" He wasn't hungry, he rarely was, but he remembered that it was dinner-time, when most people ate, and it was the only thing that he could think of to say on-the-spot.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I should have prepared us something!" John's brow furrowed with anxiety and guilt.

"No, no John. I already have, please just come down when you feel like it."

This wasn't in the least true, of course, but that was what microwaves were for, wasn't it? Sherlock smiled at John and closed the bedroom door gently. He then vaulted down the stairs to put two frozen meals to heat before John could arrive in the kitchen and catch him out in his fib.

When John arrived shortly after, they settled at the table in a companionable silence to eat Mrs. Hudson's Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes and carrots.

After supper, with the dishes washed and put away, Sherlock sat at the table with his lap-top and John, sitting on the couch, resumed reading his book, _The Urban Social Geography of London,_ which he had begun earlier in the day. Despite the quietness, Sherlock found it difficult to concentrate. Instead, he found himself casting frequent side-long glances at John. The evening was chilly. The temperature outside had dipped significantly over the course of the day to where it was now hovering on freezing. John was wearing his thick sweater but Sherlock found himself worrying that John was not warm enough. He rose from the table and lit the gas fire.

John didn't notice. He appeared perfectly at ease. In fact, he was the most relaxed that Sherlock had seen him. Giving up trying to stay focused on his research, Sherlock allowed himself to observe John. There _was_ something different about him this evening. Sherlock was sure of it now. But what? If it could be scientifically discerned Sherlock would have known what it was, for no one was a more brilliant scientist that he. No, whatever it was it seemed to emanate from a different domain. The only clue as to the nature of it was in the impact it was having on Sherlock himself: a sensation of peacefulness, happiness, optimism….all good things, in fact, very good, but mystifying.

Sherlock sighed. Setting aside the puzzle of John's aura for now (he remembered a recent paper he'd seen somewhere on bioenergetics…perhaps he should dig it out and read it…) he decided to broach with John something that he had been putting off all day. He didn't want to make John unhappy but he should offer to share with him what he had learned.

"John," he interrupted the silence in the flat. John looked up. Sherlock hesitated before he continued, "You probably don't remember but the other night when you were upset, you asked my help to find Geoffrey."

John said self-consciously, "I'm sorry Sherlock I shouldn't have burdened you with my problems like that−"

"No, John, it's fine. It's just that I have some information for you if you would like to hear it. I….I'm sometimes not good at timing though, so if this isn't a good time, just tell me, please. I don't want to upset you again…"

John looked puzzled. "You have information? Please tell me if you know something."

Sherlock moved to sit opposite him in one of the living room chairs.

"Well, I was at the hospital early this morning, before Harvey was killed. I was able to learn some things about the day you were brought in and you lost Geoffrey. The information that you want, John, is in the medical records − not just anyone can read it, please don't think that – but I knew you wanted to know so I… er...took a look."

John's eyes widened and his voice was a ghost of a whisper, "Do you know where his is? What happened to him Sherlock? Even if they put him in the…if they didn't save his body…I want to know. I just need to know, Sherlock."

"Yes, I understand John." Sherlock stopped, not sure how to tell John what he had learned, unsure what his reaction would be. "John, because of the circumstances of his death, as standard procedure, the doctors ordered an autopsy on Geoffrey. His body was sent to Bart's. It….he…..is still there, John, held until a post-mortem examination can be performed. It can take a long time, sometimes up to eight weeks before it's done…." What Sherlock did not tell John was that Harvey had refused his claim to Geoffrey's body and approved its disposal post-autopsy.

"An autopsy?" asked John.

"Yes, John. But I have a friend at Bart's, in the mortuary, she's very kind, she'll take care with his body, you don't need to worry that he won't be treated well, John. You can meet her if you like."

"Your friend? A medical examiner? Geoffrey's body is at St. Bart's? And I can have him back when the autopsy is done?"

"Yes, John."

"Sherlock−" John dissolved into tears.

"This is good, right John? This is good news and you are glad, John?" Sherlock couldn't tell…

John smiled through his tears at Sherlock's tense expression, "Yes, yes, Sherlock, thank you, thank you so much. You can't imagine what this means to me. How…..happy this makes me. I can say good-bye now and…thank him. I'm sure it sounds strange," he looked at Sherlock hesitantly, "but after he was with me, I wasn't lonely any more, I talked to him every day about the things we would do together after he was born and how happy we'd be…and I want to tell him how sorry I am too that I couldn't protect him, couldn't stop him from being hurt the way a father is supposed to do. I need to ask for his forgiveness Sherlock…" John was sobbing once more, deep gulping gasps racking his body as he bent over under the weight of his grief and regret.

"Oh, John," Sherlock whispered hoarsely, moving to crouch before him, "I'm sorry, please John, tell me what to say or do, please! I don't know how to help you." He leaned in and drew John close, then sitting down beside him, he pulled John onto his lap. The tears were dripping down his own face as well. Lord in heaven! What was it about John's pain that sliced straight through his heart and into his soul?

"There's nothing else Sherlock, I'm so grateful. Thank you. Now I can care for his body, put him to rest somewhere where I can visit him whenever I want. What you've done means everything, everything to me!"

"I'm glad I can help you. That's all I want John, is to help you." Sherlock could hardly believe his own ears when he heard himself say it! But it was true. Somehow and at some point in time, what John needed had become the most important thing in Sherlock's life. He wasn't sure what that meant, just that it was true.

He gazed down at John trying to make sense of his new discovery. His world now seemed to begin and end with John…what was it that used to be the centre of his world? His work? Himself? He couldn't remember.

John was calming as the storm of his grief passed. He lay still, his face tucked against Sherlock's shoulder, content, it seemed, to stay there for now. Soon likely he would fall asleep. He was still weak and he tired easily. Sherlock would wait until he awoke again and then make him a cup of tea; Sherlock was incapable of cooking or making much else but John seemed to appreciate the tea and so it was enough.

As he sat, the minutes ticking by, Sherlock again felt that sense of deep contentment he was starting to expect in the proximity of John; the flat was quiet and dim, warm from the fire, and John was safe in his arms…and what _was_ his sweet scent? Sherlock breathed deeply. Fresh honey. Or was it vanilla? Actually, maybe it was more like sugar-sweetened chamomile tea… so light, so pure. And compelling. Once more he had the strong urge to bury his nose between John's neck and his shoulder and just breathe him in. But he shouldn't, he thought, if John woke it would probably frighten him, so it was best not to do it…still, Sherlock wanted to very much.

The spell was broken by the sound of a text alert from Sherlock's mobile. With an arm still around John's back he reached for it. The text was from Lestrade.

SUSPECT OUT. MEET AT WESTMINSTER. CHAPEL OF HOLY SOULS.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"I'm coming with you."

John was standing in the living room doorway, his posture trepidatious, uncertain of Sherlock's reaction, but determined.

Sherlock swung around in surprise, "I…no John. I think you should stay here. You will be safer."

"I…want to come with you Sherlock. I'll be fine."

"But a murderer wants you dead, John."

"I'm not afraid, Sherlock."

Sherlock seemed about to argue but after giving John a searching look, nodded his head abruptly. He turned to the cupboard and reached for the winter jacket that he had purchased for John and assisted him into it, lifting its thick collar up around John's neck. He then pressed a pair of gloves into John's hand before pulling on his own overcoat and wrapping a scarf around his neck.

They exited the flat together, emerging onto a still and silent Baker Street and set off in the direction of the cathedral. Unusual for London, the night was clear and a distant moon was visible. Their breath formed silver clouds in the darkness, matching the ghostly rime of frost clinging to the iron railings that lined the pavement.

Once on the main road, despite the late hour, Sherlock was able to hail a cab to carry them the remaining distance to the cathedral. In the back seat of the cab, they didn't speak. Twice, Sherlock cast a quick look at John but John looked ahead or out the window, his expression unreadable.

The cab took them down Victoria Street where, across Cathedral Piazza, the massive church dominated the square. Its walls were deep in shadow but its looming 210 foot bell tower and the upper reaches of its Byzantine brick and stonework were illuminated, adding to its imposing presence. Sherlock waited until they were past the square before instructing the cabbie to let them off at Ashley Place. Well out of sight of the church, concealed in a stand of Plane trees−stark in mid-winter; they set off back toward the church, their shadows indistinguishable from those cast by the branches above.

They were close to the cathedral's great west entrance when a dark shape detached itself from the wall and Lestrade joined them. Upon seeing John he aimed a frown of concern at Sherlock, who ignored it. Instead, Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow at Lestrade and a silent conversation of hand gestures ensued.

Lestrade seemed to be indicating that they should enter the cathedral through the sacristy door on its east side, so they proceeded, sliding along the exterior of the church's south wall. The door to the sacristy was unlocked and gave way when pushed to reveal a large, dim room. Ecclesiastical artifacts, relics and chalices gleamed dully in display cases and clerical vestments lined the walls; their gold and white trim glowing faintly in the dark. The scent of incense was discernible and the temperature of the air was as cold inside the church as it was outside.

From the sacristy the three passed through the Lady Chapel, under an archway, and into the immense interior of the cathedral. Lit by weak moonlight and the ambient light of the city, the massive nave, at over 300 feet in length, was awe-inspiring. Not least due to the 30 foot crucifix floating in the gloom above them, vaguely luminous in the light from the distant windows circling the upper reaches of the nave.

Sherlock was unmoved. He gave the interior of the cathedral an assessing glance and indicated to Lestrade that he thought they should split up. He then motioned that he intended to reach the Chapel of Holy Souls by the more exposed north side of the nave while Lestrade and John should stay to the south side. He then confirmed that Lestrade was armed before nodding his head firmly at John in an indication that John should stay with Lestrade. John lowered his head in acquiescence but his gaze didn't leave Sherlock. He watched him until he could be seen no more in the darkness.

Lestrade touched John's arm and reluctantly, John turned to follow him. The two kept out of direct view from the nave; separated from it by a multitude of arches and dividers as they made their way along the south wall of the church. It was when, cautiously, they were crossing the main west entrance of the cathedral, and were directly under the clock and the pipe organ, that they were attacked.

At least Lestrade was; he gave a sharp exclamation of surprise as he was grappled from behind and John could hear scuffling as the combatants sought for solid purchase on the church's marble floor. John heard grunts of exertion from the figures and he strained to see into the darkness. At last he was able to make out the outline of Lestrade struggling to loosen the choke-hold that his assailant had around his neck. As John focused, he saw Lestrade succeed in breaking his attacker's grip and draw his weapon from his holster to defend himself. As bad luck would have it though, his assailant, flailing in rage and panic, knocked the gun from his hand and it fell to the floor with a clatter.

Both Lestrade and his attacker dived to retrieve the gun. The two landed on it at the same time and in the ensuing struggle, the gun discharged with an echoing crack and Lestrade gave a sickening gasp as he was struck in the arm by the bullet. He fought on though, continuing to try to subdue the suspect.

It was at this point that John moved. He stepped forward from the shadows to assist Lestrade, disregarding that he was revealing himself in the moonlight. The man struggling with Lestrade, for it was now clear that it was a man, just then succeeded in getting the gun. When he saw John, he raised it with deadly purpose and prepared to fire it.

But before the murderer could pull the trigger, Sherlock flew from behind the nearest marble pillar, launching himself at the gunman with a shout for John to run. Taken by surprise and knocked off balance, the suspect lost his grip on the gun and it once again clattered onto the floor, this time skidding to a stop near John. Sherlock and the suspect struggled fiercely; a desperate murderer with nothing to lose, knowing that he had been set-up for arrest and Sherlock, whose only concern was for John's safety. Sherlock shouted again for John to run, his voice a hoarse gasp from the floor as the suspect, having gained a firm hold on his scarf, began to viciously choke him.

But John had not run. Instead he had bent and grasped around for Lestrade's dropped weapon, and when he found it, he straightened, took careful aim and fired at the man who was trying to strangle Sherlock. The murderous curate was dead before he hit the ground; John's bullet, perfectly centred, passed through his heart and out again to lodge in a shimmering patch of mosaic on the far wall of the Chapel of Holy Souls.

For a moment Sherlock was unsure of what had taken place but then, as his vision cleared, he saw John bend, place the gun carefully on the floor again and stand motionless, his arms at his sides, his head bowed and his eyes fixed on the floor.

"My God! John! Are you alright? Don't be afraid. It's alright; I'll take care of you!" Sherlock was staggering up in his hurry to reach John.

John looked up at Sherlock; his eyes were afraid but his expression resigned. Then Sherlock's arms went around him and he was holding and patting John and murmuring tenderly, "It's alright now. I'm here. You saved my life, it's alright now. Don't be afraid, you won't be arrested, I'll fix this for you."

Then Sherlock reached for the gun.

"Give me my bloody pistol Sherlock, don't be an idiot!"

The order came from Lestrade, gasping on the floor several feet away. And when Sherlock turned and stared at him blankly, Lestrade barked louder, "Give it the hell here! Now, Sherlock!"

This time Sherlock obeyed the command; giving the gun a slight push with his foot to where Lestrade could reach it with his good arm. Lestrade grasped it firmly and replaced it in his holster.

"Well, don't just stare at me, call a bloody ambulance! I'm shot for Christ's sake, Sherlock!"


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

"I'll be fine Sherlock." Lestrade smiled. "Go take care of John, alright?"

"Yes." Sherlock hesitated. "Greg. Thank you."

"No worries, just next time I decide to visit you; I don't expect you to bite my head off, okay? He is pretty special alright, but it's obvious he's completely gone on you, you know."

Sherlock flushed and lowered his head. Lestrade gave a weak chuckle at this rare sight as he was loaded into an ambulance and sped on his way to the hospital.

Sherlock had not let John out of his range-of-sight for a second while the obligatory police work was being completed. John sat quietly in the cathedral's narthex with a shock blanket wrapped around him; insistently put over his shoulders by Sherlock.

Now finally, the church almost empty of others, John saw Sherlock approaching him and all but glowed; radiant with happiness that Sherlock was unharmed and as confident and commanding as ever, if not more so due to his satisfaction at having solved a difficult case. Sherlock, his eyes on John's face couldn't reach him fast enough; his long legs gracefully vaulting three chairs in succession on his way to where John was sitting. From there it was difficult to say the order of things, but arms reached to hold, eyes met and then slid closed as eager mouths found and clung to one another. There were two blissful moans, one deep and resounding in the now empty church and the other a little higher, a light sound of pure joy.

Then Sherlock's knees buckled. John was pressing eager kisses onto his face and mouth, seemingly unaware of what he was offering; his kisses unconscious, fresh, innocent even and they set Sherlock alight like dry tinder. And dear God, this was alarming: Sherlock was taking enough Alpha suppressants to take down an elephant and yet John's kisses were setting his blood on fire…he panicked.

"John, please, just stop for a minute, please! I'm not sure I can handle this, I'm not used to…"

John fell back as if stung. He put a hand to his mouth and his face burned with embarrassment. "Oh God, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have. Please forgive me! I acted without thinking, I'm just so glad you aren't hurt or dead, that I…"

"John! John, that's not what I meant," Sherlock reached to stroke John's cheek reassuringly. "I meant that I'm not used to feeling…er…aroused and I'm afraid I'll do something that hurts you or scares you." He looked down at his feet, "I'd rather die than harm or frighten you." He looked up at John again, a plea in his eyes.

John smiled at Sherlock, who watched fascinated; John's smile was like the morning sun emerging from a rain cloud. Sherlock wanted to bask in the bright rays of it for the rest of his life…but John was speaking, what was he saying?

"You, you want me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at his feet again. "I think it's something else John, actually."

When Sherlock looked up the sun had disappeared behind the cloud again.

"Oh, uh...I understand Sherlock, of course. I'm sorry…I wouldn't ever expect that you, you know…would think of me that way…I'm sorry for presuming it, I really am. After all that you've done for me, I'm just grateful…and actually, I was thinking, now that everything is over, that you need your space again, you know, to do your work. You've been very kind to me, so kind, Sherlock!" John paused and looked up, his expression transparent with awe, but then quickly looked away. "Anyway, it's time for me to think about leave−"

He got no further.

"No!"

It was a bark accompanied by a fierce growl and a lightning-fast pounce. John was propelled backward, letting out a sharp yelp of surprise as he felt himself fly through the air, fully expecting to hit the cold marble of the wall. But that isn't what happened; rather, the back of his head was caught and settled into the warm firm palm of Sherlock's right hand and his back supported by the iron strength of Sherlock's left while a very insistent thigh was inserted between his own, effectively pinning him to the wall. He thought vaguely, I should be terrified…why am I not terrified? It was bewildering.

"No, John."

Sherlock's voice was a growl in his ear which interrupted John's internal monologue. And was that a light nip on the side of John's neck? It was. Presumably to get John's full attention; which was completely unnecessary at that point.

"Listen to me carefully, John." Sherlock purposefully sought John's eyes for confirmation. "First, it is not kindness, nor is it pity that I feel toward you and I certainly do not feel the least bit noble right now. Second, you are not leaving Baker Street. You are not going anywhere. You can move out of your room if you want to, but to nowhere other than my bed and third, you will need to start getting used to the idea that I think of you in _that_ way, John Watson." And with that, apparently the time for listening was over because Sherlock's mouth came down on John's in a plundering kiss that drove thoughts of any sort from John's mind; but his body seemed to know what to do, even if he didn't, and he found himself melting into Sherlock with another blissful moan, wrapping his legs around Sherlock and clinging to him tightly.

When Sherlock finally came up for air, John managed to squeak out only, "Yes, Sherlock, I…." before his mouth was claimed once more.

And so they stayed for some time, lost in one another, in the softly shadowed entryway of the cathedral, secluded from the open nave and intimate for being so; the ideal place for glorious first kisses and whispers of new love.

The moon-dappled silence was finally broken by Sherlock's voice, husky and dark, "As much as I would like to keep you pinned here all night John − the idea really is enticing − it's too cold for you." He leaned his forehead against John's. "I think it's time we repair to Baker Street. What do you think?" He began nuzzling John's throat again and planting light kisses as he spoke, so if he was expecting a coherent answer from John he was to be disappointed.

John said, "I think love you."

Sherlock's eyes burned with blue fire. He lowered his head and caught John's mouth in another searing kiss.

"As I love you, John. Now let us go home."

Outside of the cathedral, Sherlock hailed them a late passing cab and they climbed in, John seeking Sherlock like a homing pigeon the moment the cab door was closed. John pressed close, closed his eyes and breathed: why hadn't he noticed before? Sherlock's thrilling scent of danger and courage and cold mountain winds…like nothing he had smelled before…

Sherlock welcomed him, drawing him close under his arm as he relaxed against the seatback and watched the lights of the city flow by over John's head.

"When did you learn to shoot, John?"

"My father made me and my brothers learn when we were boys. He expected that we would all be soldiers, like him. My brothers are all Alphas. Father was…surprised that I was…different. I…didn't like what they liked. I…I don't like to shoot things, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked down at John with concern and pressed a soft kiss onto his head. "I'm sorry you had to do that for me, John. I'm very sorry."

John looked up in surprise, "Oh! I'm not, not him," he said, "I'm glad I knew what to do. I would kill anyone to save you Sherlock. I feel no regret." Then, by way of an explanation he added, "Greg has the same pistol that my father had; it's a standard, service-issue Glock 17."

Sherlock said, "You terrify me, John," but he grinned and kissed him again.

John pressed closer and laid his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock smiled as before long he felt John fall asleep in the circle of his arm. Sherlock would make him that cup of tea they had missed earlier and persuade him into bed to sleep when they got home. There would be plenty of time, the rest of their lives in fact, for passion. Their relationship was clearly going to be intensely emotional and physical and not something to be rushed. John had not yet regained his health and Sherlock himself needed time to adjust to the powerful new forces driving him. John must be protected from harm, even if that meant from Sherlock himself. He raised his eyebrows ruefully. His days as a suppressed Alpha were obviously over, medicated or not. Modern pharmacology, it seemed, was no match for John Watson. He tightened his hold on John and kissed his hair again. John was an unexpected miracle. One that required nurturing and cherishing and Sherlock was honoured that he had been chosen for the role. It would be the most important work that he would ever do in his life.

End of Part I

Thank you so much for reading and following the story! A special thank you to those of you who commented too!

And an extra special thank you to Squatchlock, my inspiring writing coach and, let's be honest, life coach too.

Part II is in the works. It contains bowls full of fluffy pink love, some T rated spice, little bits of bitter-chocolate angst, coloured sprinkles of humour and a surprise (or two) in the middle. Oh, and just to put a damper on the celebration, Mycroft will make an appearance.


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